by Magnus Mills
In retrospect my efforts might have been better spent devising a sensible course of action. I’d given no proper thought to what I’d do if I bumped into Keith at the Half Moon (or anyone else for that matter). Instead I blundered in totally unprepared.
I could tell straightaway that the Confessional Records Society was thriving. There were twice as many people in the pub as normal, mostly women, and many holding pink numbered tickets in readiness. I glanced around at the various groups and within moments my misgivings about Keith were confirmed. There he was, seated at our usual corner table surrounded by several of his new-found friends. Like them he held a pink numbered ticket, a fact that suggested I’d arrived too late to help him. Moreover, he seemed entirely oblivious to my presence. My attempts to attract his attention were all in vain, but I was reluctant to approach the table directly in case the women in T-shirts tried to convert me as well. Instead I searched for a place near the bar, from where I could keep an eye on the comings and goings. Which was when I noticed James. He was sitting on the stool I’d occupied during my previous foray, and was apparently watching my every move. I gave him a nod and he beckoned me to join him.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
‘Really,’ I answered. ‘Why’s that then?’
‘Well, let’s say it’s becoming a bit of a habit of yours,’ he replied. ‘By my reckoning this is at least your second visit.’
‘You’re very well-informed,’ I said. ‘I suppose Alice reported me, did she?’
‘She mentioned it, yes.’
‘So you decided to intercept me.’
‘No, no,’ said James. ‘As a matter of fact I think we’re both here for the same reason.’
‘You mean Keith?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you don’t suspect me of being a confessor?’
‘Of course not.’
It transpired that James had anticipated my arrival and there was a pint of Guinness waiting for me in the pump. The revelation made me feel rather guilty because I’d been on the verge of demanding exactly what gave him the right to break his own rules. After all, he’d forbidden the entire Forensic Records Society from attending the Half Moon on Tuesdays; yet here he was sitting as bold as brass in the heart of the rival encampment. His explanation was simple. He told me that Alice had kept him notified about the women in the T-shirts; and that he’d become particularly alarmed about their manoeuvres where Keith was concerned. Accordingly he’d chosen to set his personal reservations aside and attend the CRS as a strictly neutral observer. He’d made a calculated guess that I would do the same, which would hopefully provide safety in numbers.
‘Well you might have told me,’ I chided.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and so might you.’
A temporary lull in the general hubbub allowed us to hear the faint music which was drifting from the direction of the back room.
‘Sounds like “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”,’ said James.
‘Yes,’ I agreed.
For the next couple of minutes we strained to listen until the record reached its dramatic conclusion. This was followed by a pregnant pause, then we watched as the door opened and a woman plunged into the tearful embraces of her companions. She was plainly overcome by the experience, but she was in good hands. No sooner had they swept her away than Phillip emerged and cast his gaze over the assembly.
‘Who’s next?’ he enquired.
‘Me,’ said Keith. ‘Number seventeen.’
I thought I saw Phillip regarding him a little curiously as he approached, but he said nothing and led him into the back room. We listened carefully and after a few moments a disembodied voice floated into our hearing.
‘“It’s awfully considerate of you to think of me here”,’ it sang, “‘and I’m most obliged to you for making it clear that I’m not here”.’
I knew the record immediately.
‘Good choice, Keith,’ I murmured.
To my surprise I received a sharp reprimand from James. He spoke quietly but firmly.
‘We mustn’t let our standards slip,’ he said, ‘especially in these surroundings.’
‘How do you mean?’ I asked.
‘We should always adhere to our doctrine,’ he replied. ‘No comments or judgements.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’
I redoubled my efforts and concentrated hard. The voice in the back room was gradually being overtaken by a demented brass band that threatened to drag it into obscurity. Next came a psychedelic interlude, after which the voice made a slight return. All of a sudden the song ended. There was a brief hiatus, then the door opened and Keith was gently but persuasively ejected. He was carrying a long-playing record and looked decidedly pale.
‘Keith!’ I called, but he paid me no attention and headed rapidly through the seething throng towards the exit. I made to go after him, only to feel a restraining hand on my arm. It belonged to James.
‘Let him go,’ he said. ‘He’ll be better off away from here.’
‘But I thought we were meant to take care of him,’ I protested. ‘He’s had quite a rough time lately.’
‘I know,’ said James, ‘but he needed to learn his lesson. This episode should ensure his safe return to the fold.’
Just then the crowd began to stir, and seconds later Phillip reappeared in the doorway.
‘Number eighteen?’ he enquired.
We watched as he scanned the room for the next candidate, and inevitably his gaze fell on the pair of us. I could tell he recognised me at once, but I was uncertain if he knew who James was. Even so, the gaze swiftly transformed into a stare.
‘Here I am!’ called a woman with a pink ticket. ‘Number eighteen!’
She approached Phillip tentatively, but he ignored her and continued staring at James. For his part, James returned the stare with equal intensity. A few moments passed and then Phillip came over to us. He and James were now only a yard apart, each eyeing the other so acutely that my palms had gone sticky.
‘How about you?’ said Phillip.
‘I think not,’ James replied.
‘Nothing to confess then?’
‘Not in your hearing.’
‘I see.’
Phillip paused to absorb the full import of James’s denial.
‘Do you believe in confession?’ he asked at length.
‘No,’ said James.
‘And you don’t allow comments or judgements?’
‘Correct.’
‘A very narrow path.’
‘From which we will not stray.’
‘So I gather.’
Without a further word Phillip turned and marched into the back room. Shortly afterwards his two accomplices emerged and ushered the bewildered woman inside. Proceedings then resumed behind closed doors.
While all this was happening a hush had descended over the startled onlookers. Whether any of them understood the significance of the confrontation was unclear, but I detected a wave of relief as the silence faded and normality was restored. James, in the meantime, remained totally unperturbed.
‘That man must have spies everywhere,’ he remarked. ‘Like another pint?’
‘Actually, it’s my round next,’ I said. ‘Where’s George got to?’
‘Not sure,’ said James. ‘He seems to have vanished.’
There was no sign of the landlord for several minutes, but eventually he came striding up the steps from the cellar wearing a very smart (though rather old-fashioned) three-piece suit.
‘Can either of you tell the difference between red and white wine?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ replied James.
‘Good,’ said George. ‘You can man the bar while I have my free confession.’
‘How do you mean “free”?’ I queried.
‘Well, it’s usually five pounds a go.’
‘What!’ I said. ‘Since when?’
‘He started charging last week,’ George explained. �
�Not me, though. I get mine in lieu of rent.’
‘Number nineteen!’ called a voice from the doorway.
Phillip’s assistants had reappeared and stood waiting for George to join them. After he’d gone James moved into position behind the bar, and I helped out by collecting empty glasses. After a few seconds we heard music coming from the back room. George had chosen ‘Islands in the Stream’, and as it played I pondered the latest piece of news.
So Phillip was now charging a fee for each confession! Presumably Keith had refused to pay and this was the reason he’d been rejected. Nevertheless there were plainly scores of others who were willing to part with their hard-earned money so that a comparative stranger could peer into their inner selves. The very idea of it made me squirm with distaste, and I was baffled by George’s apparent eagerness to participate. I’d have thought a hard-headed businessman like him would have been more sceptical. Admittedly he’d avoided paying the fee, yet he’d gone to the trouble of changing into a suit before his confession was heard! I could only surmise that beneath the bluff exterior lay a sentimental soul.
‘Islands in the Stream’ duly ended and George emerged from the back room trying desperately to restrain his tears. He received a round of applause from the assembled women, then came behind the bar and dismissed James and me from our duties.
‘Thanks for the help,’ he said. ‘You can have a pint each on the house.’
Such generosity was practically unknown in the Half Moon, and I debated whether George had somehow been altered by his recent experience. A little later, however, he abruptly quashed the notion.
‘By the way,’ he announced. ‘Your free trial period expires at the end of the month.’
‘Oh yes?’ said James.
‘If you wish to keep the back room after that you’ll have to pay me some rent.’
‘But you weren’t using it until we came along,’ I objected.
‘True,’ said George, ‘but there’s been a sudden upsurge in demand.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m receiving a constant stream of enquiries.’
Faced with these facts we had no alternative but to accede to George’s ultimatum. We quickly agreed terms, then James and I retired to a corner to discuss the situation.
‘Rather unfortunate,’ said James. ‘It means we’ll have to start charging for membership.’
‘But won’t that make us as bad as the CRS?’ I asked.
‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘We’re merely covering a running cost, whereas they profit from each confession.’
‘Bunch of charlatans.’
‘Indeed.’
Having established that ours was the more righteous cause, we decided that there was nothing to be gained from staying any longer. We finished our pints and made plans for the following Monday.
‘I’ll send round a memo,’ said James, ‘informing the others about the membership fee.’
‘Good thinking,’ I said. ‘Then they can come prepared.’
As soon as I got home that night I went straight to my turntable and played ‘Every Day Should Be a Holiday’ three times in succession; then I climbed into bed and considered the latest turn of events. The stand-off with Phillip had demonstrated once and for all that the Forensic Records Society would never be reconciled with the CRS. All the same, I felt we were under much less pressure than before. Our resolve in the face of overwhelming opposition had proved we had the strength to continue on our present course. Any previous doubts had been removed. We had no need to make confessions about our records; for us it sufficed simply to listen without comment or judgement. The only problem was the projected membership fee, but this was a trifling matter which I was certain could be easily overcome.
Regrettably my optimism was short-lived. I arrived on the appointed evening to discover there were only six of us in attendance. Chris and Keith were nowhere to be seen, and James insisted on beginning punctually at eight.
‘Latecomers will not be admitted,’ he declared.
As it transpired, there were no latecomers. The session went as well as might be expected under the circumstances, but none of us could ignore the prospect of our numbers dwindling further still. The gloom deepened when we emerged from the back room at half past ten. During the meeting a new poster had appeared on the wall next to ours:
PERCEPTIVE RECORDS SOCIETY
MEETS EVERY WEDNESDAY
9PM
HALF MOON
BRING SOME RECORDS AND SHARE YOUR PERCEPTIONS
Whoever designed the poster had gone to a great deal of trouble over its style and content. They’d employed pastel colours with flowery decorations and a contrasting border, and it put the neighbouring posters to shame. When we read it we reached a variety of conclusions.
‘Obviously a splinter group,’ said James. ‘Most probably Chris and Keith protesting about the new fees.’
‘Doesn’t it run a bit deeper than that?’ I ventured. ‘After all, they’ve been very careful with their presentation.’
‘Perceptive Records,’ said Dave. ‘It certainly chimes in with Keith’s preference for long-players.’
‘Oh I think Chris is the driving force,’ said Barry. ‘I expect he wants to exercise his right to quote.’
Whatever the reason, a new society had been formed on our very doorstep and we had to decide how to react. Naturally James wanted to adopt a hard line with the renegades.
‘We’ve given them chance after chance,’ he said, ‘and they’ve thrown it all back at us.’
‘So what do you suggest?’ asked Dave.
‘Permanent expulsion,’ James replied. ‘Anything less will only encourage others to join them.’
‘Steady on,’ I said. ‘If we keep expelling people we risk signing our own death warrant.’
‘Besides,’ said Barry, ‘you can’t expel anybody.’
‘Why?’ said James.
He seemed genuinely perplexed by the assertion.
‘Because we’re all equal members,’ Barry answered. ‘I disagree with Chris and Keith on several counts, but actually they’re well within their rights.’
‘To set up a rival society?’ demanded James.
‘No,’ said Barry. ‘A society with different aims to ours.’
‘If they’re sharing perceptions,’ Dave added, ‘surely they pose more of a threat to the confessionals than us.’
‘I think they sound quite harmless,’ said Mike.
‘Harmless or not,’ said James, ‘they’ve betrayed us and should be punished accordingly.’
James had patently failed to grasp that his own strict approach formed a large part of the problem. Moreover, it struck me as foolhardy to condemn people without trial. As the debate continued I went to the bar and consulted with George; he confirmed that Chris and Keith had been in the pub earlier and negotiated hiring the back room on Wednesday evenings. So now we knew for certain. I joined the others and related the news; then, after further discourse, Dave proposed a compromise.
‘Instead of expelling or suspending anyone,’ he said, ‘why don’t we send an envoy to the Perceptive Records Society?’
‘For what purpose?’ enquired James.
‘Simply to maintain contact,’ said Dave. ‘You never know: we might even gain from allowing them a bit of freedom. Once they’ve let off steam they’ll most likely return to the straight and narrow.’
Dave’s wise counsel finally won James over. The next step was to choose a suitable envoy.
‘Definitely not me,’ said Barry. ‘I’m bound to clash with Chris over some obscure wording.’
‘Nor me,’ said Dave. ‘I’m against long-players.’
For reasons of their own Mike and Rupert similarly ruled themselves out. Needless to say James couldn’t possibly fill the role, and I gradually realised the mantle was about to fall on my shoulders.
‘Alright, I’ll volunteer,’ I said. ‘Should be interesting actually.’
Annoyingly, I then had to endure a
barrage of suggestions about the records I should take with me.
‘What about “Novocaine for the Soul”?’ said Barry.
‘Or “Cool Meditation”,’ offered Dave.
‘“Love is the Law”,’ urged Mike. ‘Three minutes forty-two seconds.’
‘Yes, well,’ I said, ‘I think you’re all making misplaced assumptions about which direction they’ll be moving.’
‘Only trying to help,’ said Mike.
‘I know you are,’ I replied, ‘but if I’m to represent us properly I need a degree of independence.’
As a matter of fact I found all their suggestions useful in the sense that I knew they were all wrong. The challenge I’d accepted was formidable because the Perceptive Records Society had introduced a new dimension to the art of listening. Therefore to gain their trust I needed to be highly assiduous in my choice of record. I had to convince them of my worth; otherwise they might brand me an impostor and kick me out.
‘Oh, one last thing,’ I said. ‘I presume our door is always open if they ever want to come back?’
‘Suppose so,’ said James with reluctance.
‘Good,’ I remarked. ‘It’ll be handy to have a trump card up my sleeve.’
I looked at the clock and noticed it was getting rather late, then a movement in the doorway caught my eye. Throughout the evening Alice had kept such a low profile that I’d almost forgotten she was there. She’d been operating the corner bar as usual, having apparently made her peace with James (I wasn’t sure about the rest of us), and now she emerged from the back room carrying the red portable.
‘You forgot this,’ she announced.
‘Oh yes,’ said James. ‘Sorry.’
He went swiftly over and took it from her, then carried it down into the cellar. Meanwhile George gave the bell its final ring.
‘Come on, you lot,’ he bawled. ‘Out!’
It was time to leave, so the others wished me luck and I set off home. As I walked the dark streets I pondered what to take to the Perceptive Records Society. Many contenders sprang to mind, of course, arising from a very broad spectrum, and once again I realised the enormity of the task. How, for example, could I make a choice between ‘Sloop John B’ and ‘Johnny B. Goode’; or between ‘Friday on my Mind’ and ‘Friday I’m in Love’*; or between ‘Last Train to Clarksville’ and ‘Magic Bus’? It was impossible, and by the time I reached home my head was spinning. Feeling tired and overwrought, I slumped on my bed and asked myself what on earth I’d let myself in for.